Poets Are Far Rarer Birds

They, Who Know No Evil, Will Suspect None.

I Know No Disease Of The Soul But Ignorance, A Pernicious Evil, The Darkener Of Man's Life, The Disturber Of His Reason, And Common Confounder Of Truth.

[the Play] Is Like To Be A Very Conceited Scurvy One, In Plain English.

All Concord's Born Of Contraries.

Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out Of Countenance Out Of Wit.